


The Days After

by lettered



Series: Wild and Wired [4]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 03:52:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19455781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettered/pseuds/lettered
Summary: David's not used to having feelings for so many people in the same place all at once.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This starts directly after Week Two. 
> 
> Thank you to those of you who have been so kind about this series. Your kindness on various platforms have lifted me up in a busy, stressful time. I'm letteredlettered on tumblr and ilettered on twitter.
> 
> Thanks especially to Codswallop, who voted on breaking this into smaller fics, and ahurston, who listened to me whine.
> 
> *

When David woke up, he realized he was naked, which was awful. Then he realized he was in Stevie’s bed, which was more awful, but Patrick was beside him, which made some of these things okay. Stevie’s ugly little clock said it was four in the morning, and Patrick had on a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. David got out of the bed, careful to do it gently and quietly, but Patrick still shifted in his sleep, as though sensing David’s absence.

Patrick had been _sleeping_ with him. Not having sex but sleeping beside him, and David could feel the smile pushing at his face. Hurriedly, he got back into his underwear and sweats. He really should take a shower, but it would mean leaving Patrick for too long. Who knew how many hours sleeping beside him in a bed David would ever get? They didn’t even have a bed they could regularly share; maybe this would be the last time. Scrambling to get his sweater on, David carefully crawled back into bed, pushing up close to Patrick without actually touching him, feeling the heat radiating off his body like an aura.

David could barely see him in the dark, but the glow of streetlights through Stevie’s blinds created just enough light to highlight Patrick’s very regular face, his straight nose, his perfect mouth. His pretty eyelashes for his pretty eyes, resting gently on his cheeks. No one would ever look at Patrick and think rock star or model or teen heartthrob. No one would look at him and think pure sex, or feel the need to photograph him for London fashion week, or make a living nude sculpture of him by covering him with wet mud.

They were all wrong, and David was fiercely glad they were, that all those vultures would never see him, never even look at him. They wouldn’t see how pretty he was, his perfect eyes and perfect nipples and perfect elbows; they wouldn’t know where to look. They wouldn’t see him smile or hear him laugh or know what he sounded like when he came. 

Even when David lost him, they still wouldn’t know; Patrick would still be hidden and obscure, safe among farms and friendly people who stopped to help lost motorists, under blue skies and green fields, amidst the smell of grass and cows and Shoppers cologne. They wouldn’t find him. Free cocaine and celebrities and billionaires and limousines would never find him. Wolves could maybe find him, but famous photographers and starlets who wanted you to score heroin for them never would. 

Patrick was safe, safe from all of them, and David wanted to keep him that way, keep him wholesome and clean and healthy and perfect, and he thought about Patrick using shampoo to finger himself. He thought about Patrick wanting to do every single thing David had mentioned on the phone, like it was some kind of wish list to Santa, a fairy godmother, things Patrick maybe never though he could have, things Patrick never thought to want. David thought about Patrick trying his best, _practicing_ , working so hard just to make David come, and David’s heart hurt. 

It hurt so bad, because Patrick wanted it so much. Patrick wanted it so, so much—to try everything, to do everything, and David wanted to give it to him. He wanted to give him the most perfect experience, a new experience that had absolutely no pain or hurt or messiness or mistakes, a beautiful thing that Patrick could remember forever and think was really good, except David had never had that. He didn’t know how. He didn’t know how to give it to him, how to be what Patrick deserved, but he _wanted_ to, and that was new. 

He’d never wanted to do anything like this before, try so hard for someone, give so much to someone, not for himself, but for them. He’d wanted someone to want him, sure; he would go to great lengths for that, but this was different; it felt different; he wanted it for _Patrick_ , because Patrick was good and kind and generous and funny and helped him with his sister and had never made David feel small, not even once. Patrick was precious.

Years from now, David would remember Patrick, and think about the fact that once, he’d been with someone who made him feel good, someone who was kind to him and respected him, someone who made David feel like he deserved good things, and this was what David had really wanted all along. He’d never realized that before, that he wanted someone who was good. He’d often thought he wanted someone to be good _to_ him, but it had never crossed his mind that he wanted someone who was simply _good_ , who was a good person. David had thought good people didn’t really exist. They were made up. They were Sasquatch; they were the tooth fairy.

David couldn’t stop himself after all; he reached out to trace Patrick’s cheekbone with the tip of a finger. This was something other people wouldn’t notice either. Because Patrick’s cheekbones weren’t high and striking, people in David’s other life never would have noticed that Patrick’s cheeks were actually perfect; they were perfect like a doll’s, porcelain and smooth until the silly stubble on Patrick’s jaw. They wouldn’t think the stubble was perfect either; they wouldn’t get it; no one else would understand. No one but David, who leaned in to kiss it.

“Mrmph,” Patrick said, shifting toward him in his sleep, and David smiled in the dark where no one could see him. Patrick had silly ears; they were a silly shape, too small, and David traced that too.

Patrick put a hand on him.

“Go back to sleep,” David whispered, because he wanted to touch him like this, without Patrick knowing. David wanted to pretend to own him, like Patrick was only his, something he could touch any time he wanted.

“Mm,” Patrick said, and abruptly turned over, putting his back to David.

David didn’t care; Patrick was still asleep, so David moved closer, up behind Patrick so he could look at his ear some more, the curve of his jaw. “You’re mine,” David whispered, just to hear himself say it. “You’re mine right now. No one else gets you, except me.” Putting his hand on Patrick’s hip, David kissed the tip of his ear. “I get to have you,” he said, his voice just breath, so soft even he could barely hear it. 

“I get to have you,” David said again, because it was true. He hadn’t done so many terrible things in his life or been such a garbage fire of a person that he didn’t get to have one good thing for a little while. He got to have it for a little while. “I’ll make it good,” David breathed, burying his nose in Patrick’s neck and pulling him closer. He didn’t care if he woke him up a little. 

Patrick was his in this perfect, magic hour, four o’ clock in the morning in Stevie’s bedroom. Patrick belonged to him in this single slice of their lives, and David would make it worth Patrick’s time. He was worth Patrick’s time.

 _I could deserve you_ , he thought, drifting off to sleep. What a crazy thought.

*

“I’m gonna get you coffee,” said a voice, and David wished it would go away. “I’ll be right back.”

 _Die in a fire_ , David thought, because he didn’t like anything that kept him from peaceful slumber.

*

Wet on his lips, warmth, a mouth was on his, someone was kissing him. Gross. Someone was kissing him in the morning, before he’d had a chance to brush his teeth and gargle. “David,” Patrick said, pulling away.

“Ugh.” David turned away, because _Patrick_. He couldn’t deal with Patrick. He couldn’t be _nice_ to Patrick; it was morning.

“David,” Patrick said again, annoyingly. “I’m going to work. I got you breakfast; it’s in the microwave.”

 _Good riddance_ , David thought, but just said, “Ugh,” again, snuggling deeper into the bed. _Stevie’s_ bed. Wait. “Breakfast?” David asked, turning back, finally opening his eyes.

“Pancakes.”

“Mm.” David reached for him. He guessed it was okay to kiss Patrick before David had brushed his teeth, if that was what Patrick really wanted—and Patrick must really want it, because he didn’t take much coaxing. After leaning up to catch Patrick’s lips with his own, David lay back down and kind of tugged Patrick’s arm, and then Patrick was there, letting David lie back with his mouth open while Patrick did rather thorough things inside of it.

It made David think that morning was possibly not the worst after all. If Patrick was a morning person, maybe he could fuck him in the morning—fuck him really hard, while David was still mostly asleep, and David could be used up with come leaking out of him and sleep another three hours; David loved that. He loved the hell out of that. What if David didn’t even wake up until Patrick was inside of him, fucking him hard, fucking him with his cock—

Goddamn. David wasn’t even getting hard. He’d come too many times last night.

“David,” Patrick said, pulling away. “I have to go open the store.”

“Do you wanna fuck me?”

Warm breath huffed against David’s neck. “Didn’t you get enough last night?”

“No,” David said. “Do you have morning wood?”

Patrick kissed him again. “I’ve been up for hours.”

“I wanna do you.”

“That’s very romantic,” Patrick said. “I have to go to work.”

“I can do you fast,” David said. “Really fast.”

“Even more romantic.” Patrick pecked him on the cheek, then stood up.

David caught his hand. “I wanna get my mouth on your cock.”

“Are you always like this in the morning?”

“No.”

“Oh, so I’m special?” Patrick teased, coming back down to kiss him again.

“Your cock is special,” David said. “It’s so nice and thick.”

Patrick laughed. “David. Are you actually awake right now?”

“Yes. Kind of.”

“Well.” Patrick kissed him again. “Thanks for the compliment. I really have to go.”

“Two minutes.”

“David.” For the first time, Patrick sounded like he was hesitating.

“I can make you come,” David announced, and it sort of sounded like he was a five-year-old saying he could ride a pony, but it was _true_ ; he could do it. “You said you like it when I say what I want; I want your cock; I want it in my mouth; I want your come down my—”

“I feel like I created a monster.”

“I don’t know when I’ll get the chance again,” David said loudly. He hadn’t meant to say it at all.

“David.” Patrick’s voice had entirely changed, and he sat beside him on the bed. “We’ll find other times. This wasn’t our last night.”

“I could’ve done it in the time we’ve talked about it.”

There was a silence. “All right,” Patrick said, and David thought he should feel some shame or some reluctance, maybe, since he’d practically forced Patrick into it, but he didn’t. He didn’t. Patrick had gotten him pancakes, and David just wanted the night before to last a little longer. Today was a new day; anything could happen; there could be a fire; Patrick could meet someone new, a lightning storm, a murder, Patrick could decide he’d had enough, anything. Anything. David slid out of bed. 

“What are you—”

“Stay there,” David said, opening Patrick’s legs, getting to his knees between them, already opening Patrick’s belt, his jeans.

Patrick put his hands on his waistband like he was going to help. “Maybe I should take them off,” he suggested.

“Don’t,” David said, already pushing down Patrick’s underwear, getting Patrick’s dick out. “I’ll keep you clean.” Then David took all of Patrick’s dick in his mouth in one go.

Patrick was mostly soft, just starting to get hard, but that was okay. That was great. David loved soft cock. He loved all cock, really. He loved feeling it get hard in his mouth, feeling Patrick grow for him; David came off of it to tongue the slit, suck hard at the head, do the things he already knew that Patrick liked, then go back down.

“Fuck,” Patrick said softly, his hands coming up to card through David’s hair.

David looked up at him. _Use me,_ he tried to say with his eyes, then kept going at it, fast and a little hard, letting Patrick hit the back of his throat, because he already knew Patrick liked it; he was completely hard, now. David listened to the hitches in Patrick’s breath, interpreting the twitches of Patrick’s hips as cues. David was good at this; he knew how to read people in sexual situations. He already knew how to read _Patrick_ , drive harder at all the little things that apparently excited Patrick, made him feel good in no time at all.

David wanted Patrick to feel like David was a gift. A sex savant. A fornication revelation, an intercourse epiphany, an aficionado of fellatio. David wanted Patrick to remember it all day, and the next, how good it felt, how wet and silky David’s throat was on his cock; he wanted Patrick to feel like he could never get it this good from anyone else ever again. Like he could never even _want_ it this good ever again. David moaned around Patrick’s cock, reaching to work Patrick’s balls.

“Goddamn,” said Patrick, hands clutching in David’s hair. “God _dammit_ , David.”

David opened Patrick’s legs wider, found the hickey he’d left on Patrick’s inner thigh the night before, then scratched it with his nails while deepthroating Patrick’s cock. Then he swallowed.

“Fuck,” Patrick said and stomped the floor, and then he came.

David moaned, pulling off just enough to taste it, get it on his tongue, holding Patrick in his mouth as he came and came, then slowly sliding off of it, carefully, because Patrick would be so sensitive. David let it slide out, spittle connecting him to it for a second before he wiped his face with the back of his hand.

“Come here,” Patrick said, cupping his face, pulling him up onto the bed beside him.

David, startled by this, really thought Patrick should maybe just bask in the glow of his expertise. “I’ll still taste like—”

“Yeah,” Patrick said, then kissed him. “David,” he said, then kissed him again.

“Mm,” David said, pulling away after a minute of this. The point was to leave the blow-job as Patrick’s most recent memory, so he couldn’t wait to get back to David’s mouth again. “Don’t you have to go open the store?” 

“I think you might kill me,” Patrick said softly, petting his face.

“Morning breath?” David joked, finally embarrassed, which perhaps he should have been sooner. 

“No, all this stubble,” Patrick said, kissing him again. “It’s so hot.”

“How did you not know you were gay?” David said, before he could think about it.

“I thought I probably was.” Patrick kissed him again. “It just never worked out before.”

“Never worked out?” David pulled away. “Did you _try_?”

“Got to go.” Patrick stood up. His jeans were still undone, wet cock hanging out.

“Patrick!”

Patrick bent to kiss David’s cheek. “I’ll tell you about it when you want to tell me about threesomes with Stevie.”

“I didn’t have threesomes with Stevie.”

“Your coffee and pancakes are in the microwave,” Patrick said, walking away from him.

“That’s not fair.”

Patrick was doing something in the bathroom. “I thought I was going to get to wake up to see you naked,” he called back. 

“You’ve seen me naked,” David called out to him.

“But I really wanted to see it in the morning.” 

“I don’t sleep naked.”

“Last night supplied evidence to the contrary.”

“’Evidence to the contrary’? What are you, a lawyer?”

“I worked in a law firm for a year,” Patrick said, coming out of the bathroom with his jeans zipped up, belt buckled. He went over to the kitchen, coming back out with a travel mug.

“You worked in a law firm?” David felt strangely hurt that he had not known this.

“Yep,” Patrick said, scooping up his bag from Stevie’s chair.

“But when?”

“I hated it.” Patrick came back to him and kissed him. “This job is the best I’ve ever had.”

David could smell Patrick’s tea and shaving cream. “But when did you work in a law firm?”

“I did the dishes,” Patrick said, “and the towels are in a pile over there. You’ll need to strip the sheets—unless you want me to do it for you, which means you need to get out of bed.”

“I don’t want to get out of bed.”

“Such a good mouth,” Patrick said, pulling back from another kiss to press his thumb to David’s bottom lip. “Really good. That was really good. You make me feel good.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I have to go,” Patrick said, kissing him again. “Thank you.”

“For the blow job?”

“For being my business partner.”

“Why did you hate working in a law firm?”

“And for going out with me,” Patrick added, kissing him again.

“Have you been out with other guys?”

“And for having sex with me,” Patrick said. “Really good sex.”

“ _How_ good?” 

“And for taking care of the sheets,” Patrick said, pulling away.

“Why are you like this?” David called after him as Patrick went for Stevie’s door. 

“Have a good day, David!” Patrick said. “Text me when you talk to Alexis.”

Then the door opened and shut, and David was alone in Stevie’s apartment. “Fuck,” David said, leaning back into the pillows. Fuck. Fucking Alexis. He’d managed to almost forget about fucking Alexis for almost a whole fucking night. Patrick had gotten him pancakes, which only made it a little better. 

David’s phone pinged, and getting up, he found it with yesterday’s pants, which were now officially cleaner than his current pants.

 **Patrick:** I managed to refrain from saying this all day yesterday  
**Patrick:** Wanted to make sure you’d still have sex with me

 **David:** what

 **Patrick:** It’s been 2 weeks

 **David:** no

 **Patrick:** No barenaked ladies. But don’t think I’m not going to say happy anniversary

 **David:** It’s not an anniversary it’s literally a WEEK

 **Patrick:** 2 weeks. Happy anniversary

David felt himself smile. He hated this.

 **David:** It was happy before you said anything

 **Patrick:** And now

 **David:** I guess it’s ok

 **Patrick:** Thanks you’re the best

David looked at that text for a long time.

*

 **David:** Alexis isn’t pregnant

 **Patrick:** Is she ok

 **David:** Jocelyn is pregnant

 **Patrick:** I can see how you’d get them confused Alexis does look a lot like Jocelyn

 **David:** Ooooooooh tell Alexis that

 **Patrick:** She’ll like it I have it on good authority Jocelyn is the hot one

 **David:** Don’t you think she’s the hot one?

 **Patrick:** I’m gay

 _You’ve really embraced that, haven’t you?_ David swiped, but then deleted it. It was kind of patronizing. Was Patrick saying he didn’t find girls hot? Like, at all? But what about before he met David? _I knew I was gay_ , Patrick had said. Or he’d said _something_ like that. What had he been doing, though? He’d said he’d never kissed a guy. What if he had done everything _but_ kissing? But David knew that wasn’t true. It wasn’t true, not with the way Patrick acted; _I haven’t enjoyed sex_. But what had he been doing?

If David asked, he might have to tell Patrick what _he_ had been doing. A lifetime of horrible hook-ups and torrid affairs. No thanks. _Lock it up_ , Patrick had said. David was fine with that.

 **Patrick:** Glad Alexis is okay

 **David:** I’m glad Symphonie isn’t going to be born any time soon

 **Patrick:** Symphonie? Is that what she wanted to name her kid

 **David:** No im going to name it Alexis would probably name it Kaiden

 **Patrick:** Kaiden is worse than Symphonie?

 **David:** Symphonie is a beautiful name

 **Patrick:** What if it was a boy

 **David:** Freesia

 **Patrick:** Wow ok

 **David:** what

 **Patrick:** nothing

David took a shower—a really long one, hoping his whole family would be gone by the time he was done with his rather excessive exfoliation. Then he fixed his face and hair and thought about taking a nap, because it had been really, really fantastic sex but not the best sleep, because it had been Stevie’s bed and he’d been naked and Patrick had been there. But no, there were important things to do today, so he made a few phone calls, did some online shopping, then went to see if Stevie was around. 

She was at the front desk, reading a book. “Did you even go home after your . . . tryst? Rendezvous? What are we calling it? Assignation?”

“We’re not calling it anything.” She made a face at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m looking for sticks in your hair.”

Stevie made another face at him. “I’m looking for the sheets that used to be on my bed.”

“I took them to the dry cleaners. Which was more than those sheets deserved.”

“I’m beginning to feel like _I’m_ more than you deserve, after what I did for you last night.”

“Um. Were you the one that did something for me? Because I seem to remember _Patrick_ doing _lots_ for me, but you weren’t—”

“Wow. Do I need these details?”

David’s brows went up. “At least I wasn’t in the woods.”

“We weren’t—we didn’t . . .”

David’s brows stayed up.

“I was going to tell you,” Stevie said.

“Were you, though?”

“Yes. Okay. No.”

“I thought,” David said, trying to make it sound like a joke. “I heard something, somewhere . . .” He was joking, right? “About friends . . .” Of course he was joking, and even if he wasn’t, he had Patrick now, so why should he care? “Telling each other things?”

“Where did you hear that?”

The way she said it made David feel a whole lot better, because she was pretending she was joking too. “In a pamphlet,” David said. “About friendship. Given to me by missionaries.”

“They were probably misinformed.”

“So that toothbrush, when I stayed at your place, because Alexis had lice?”

“Okay. Yeah. Yes. I didn’t tell you.” Stevie kind of looked like he was stabbing her. “You had Patrick, okay?”

David reared his head back. “Excuse me, what does _Patrick_ have to do with”—he waved his arms at her and her being-stabbed face—“any of this?”

“I just mean, you were happy. I didn’t want to, I don’t know, _remind_ you of—of another . . . another relationship that didn’t work for y—”

“Tch!” David held his fingers up to direct her mouth closed, but she looked like she might talk again anyway. “Tch!” he said, even more loudly. “You’re reminding me of it now, so you can’t have felt _that_ much of a compunction.”

Stevie gave him an apologetic little shrug. “It was kind of a compunction?”

“Anyway,” David went on, “I’ve been going out with Patrick a total of _two weeks_ , as he is so fond of telling me—probably by singing telegram—”

Stevie’s eyes bugged out. “He sent you a singing telegram?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” David muttered. His voice rose as he went on, “Two weeks! You’ve been going out with Jake for _over_ a _month_. What are you doing?”

Stevie had out her phone. “Nothing.”

“No.” David snatched it out of her hands.

“Hey, personal property,” she said, waving to get it back.

“No,” David said again. “You’re going to tell Patrick to send a singing telegram.”

Stevie looked shifty. “No, I wasn’t.”

“You told me he was Bill Gates!” David said, waving her phone around. “You lay there and told me Patrick was Bill Gates, when you were going out with Jake! This whole time!”

Stevie looked at him uncomprehendingly. “What does Bill Gates have to do with anything?”

“Context!” David waved the phone around some more. “I didn’t even know where Patrick _lived_ , but you were going out with Jake and not telling me because—why?”

Stevie’s eyes narrowed. “That thing with Patrick was going on by then.”

“What thing!”

“The flirting thing!”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Yes, it was!”

David finally brought her phone down out of the air. “Was it?” he asked.

“Yes!” she said, snatching back her phone. “I told you, he was into you.”

Tilting his head, David thought about this. “How long do you think he was into me?”

“Why don’t you ask him?” Bending her head to her phone, Stevie became intent upon her text composition in an unnecessarily flagrant way.

“Don’t text him that,” David snapped.

“You were the one who was curious.”

“I still have Jake’s number. I’ll tell him about what you did at your eighth grade dance.”

Stevie’s head jerked up, and hopefully that meant she could see that he was serious. “You wouldn’t,” she breathed.

“I would.”

She bit her lip. “I wanted to tell you.”

“Did you really?” She just looked so miserable, and David finally couldn’t stand it. “Did you think I would be jealous? Or did you think I would get—”

“No! No. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

David blinked at her. “I’m not hurt,” he said, and then he heard his words. “I’m not hurt by you going out with Jake,” he elucidated.

“But you’re hurt.”

“I thought,” he said, then realized he was about to say something he really meant. “I thought I was the sort of person . . .” He swallowed, and then his voice was a whisper. He didn’t want it to be. He didn’t want to give this thought any voice at all, but then he did. “I thought we told each other things. I thought that was our—I thought we had something. Like that.”

“We do,” she said, looked almost as pained by this sincerity as he felt.

“Fine. Whatever.” He turned to go, because he did not want to have to deal with this anymore, but then he remembered why he was actually there. Digging in his pocket, he turned back, then put her apartment key and the dry-cleaning slip on the desk and turned to go again.

“You’re so happy!” she burst out.

He whirled around. “This is not what I look like when I’m happy.”

“I mean with Patrick,” she said. “You’re happy, and I’m not, and I didn’t want to—I didn’t want it to affect anything you had, and before you were going out with him I still thought it might—hurt you, that Jake chose me, but he didn’t choose me. It’s because I have no standards, and I—I didn’t want you to know that. About me.”

“I already knew that about you,” he said, feeling that it was not particularly mean-spirited, because the unspoken part was, _you know that about me as well_. Just because David had gotten lucky with Patrick didn’t mean he’d become a stellar judge of lovers.

“I don’t even _like_ him that much.” Stevie looked like she hated herself, and David was so fucking familiar with that sentiment that he couldn’t help it; he began to smile. Damn, he was such a fucking asshole.

“Okay,” David said. “We’re going out tonight.”

Stevie just gave him this look. “I can’t.”

David processed the look on her face. “Oh my God.” Then he processed the look on her face some more. “Oh my _God_! You’re not—again? With _him_?”

“I mean, not tonight. One night in the woods per month is enough for me.”

This did not dispel David’s dismay. “You really spent the night in the _woods_?”

“Yeah, have you ever seen _Blair Witch_?”

“Um, _no_ , because that is—” David broke off, because he knew Stevie, and he knew what she was doing. She was trying to distract him with how much he hated horror. “If you’re not going out with Jake tonight, what _are_ you doing?”

She gave him this long, extended wince. “Bree? Is in town?”

“Bree,” David said, at first not comprehending. Then he remembered. “Skaggy, stripper Bree? Bree with—with your cousin, what’s his name, and the weed? Bree who trashed your motel, Bree, that Bree? Do you even remember the last time she was here?”

“I slept with this guy in the honeymoon suite.”

“Ugh.”

“He wasn’t that bad.”

“I like you too much for us to remember that.”

“I will always remember that,” said Stevie. “It solidified our friendship.”

David shuddered. “How?”

“Well, at first I really wanted to sleep with you. After I slept with you, it became much easier to not want to sleep with you, which made it easier to be friends.” 

“Okay,” David said, because he didn’t actually want to rehash this, but these were incorrect facts. “But then we _did_ sleep together again.”

“Which solidified it even more.”

“It wasn’t _that_ bad,” David said, and only then did he realized he had been trapped, because Stevie was smirking. “ _You_ were never bad,” he felt the need to say, because suddenly he realized he wasn’t sure he’d ever told her that. “I just make—bad choices.”

“Oh,” Stevie said archly. “I never do that.”

David pursed his lips, eyes narrowing. “Why are you spending time with Bree? And where’s—the cousin?”

“Sean,” said Stevie. “They broke up.”

“Big surprise there.” He thought about this. “But he was the one who was your cousin,” he said, “so now you’re not related to her. So, no obligations, right?”

“She has a kid.”

“So?”

Stevie just gave him another look.

“I’m serious,” said David. “Your family is a study in assholery; they’ve abandoned you; they don’t deserve you.”

Stevie didn’t look particularly swayed by any of this fantastic reasoning. 

“I don’t _like_ them,” David told her, which felt like the most important thing.

“But,” said Stevie. “They’re all I have.”

“What am I, gravy on poutine?”

“Ew.”

“It’s delicious,” David said, voice dropping down low because poutine was disgusting and he knew it. Stevie wouldn’t meet his eyes, and David felt like he had not sufficiently made his point. “You don’t need to hang out with her.” She just looked miserable again, and David saw the error of his ways. “Wait. You _want_ to hang out with her.”

“You have Patrick, and—”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because you’re my only friend!” 

David rocked back on his heels, then saw the error of his ways once more; he saw it all. _Patrick could be your friend_ , he wanted to say, because Patrick was helping him with Alexis, and Patrick also fixed everything and made life better, but David already knew that would do the opposite of helping. It wouldn’t make _Stevie’s_ life better, because she wouldn’t have someone who was hers.

David had been hers, he realized. Her person. Patrick was David’s person, but David was Stevie’s, even without the sex and romance; it wasn’t about that. It wasn’t always about that, and David’s hands felt sweaty. He felt like there were tiny pinpricks all over his skull. He felt squeezed inside, but also too big, too big in all the wrong places, and he had literally never felt this way except about Alexis.

 _Empathy_ , Doctor Bakshi had called it. _That’s why you feel so upset when your sister is in difficult situations._

 _Is there a cure?_ he had asked, wildly.

 _I love you_ , he thought at Stevie, and he wasn’t even about to fall asleep. What the fuck was happening to him?

“Tomorrow,” David said. Stevie had turned away, as though she had very important work at her little computer, but David didn’t even think she was trying very hard to lie. She was mortified by what she’d said; she was probably over there playing Solitaire.

“What?” she said, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Come out with me tomorrow night,” David said.

She pretended like she was very busy with her Solitaire or sudoku or whatever. “Don’t you have something with Patrick?”

“No,” David said. “We don’t plan ahead. We’re very spontaneous.”

“Patrick is literally the least spontaneous person I have ever met.”

“He can be spontaneous,” David said, feeling oddly hurt.

“Really?” Stevie said brightly, still clicking on her mouse. “How long had he been planning on giving you that receipt he gave you last week? It was just there, waiting to go.”

“Maybe he planned on giving it to me for my birthday.”

“He didn’t know it was your birthday until day-of.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know things,” she said, lifting her chin. “We talk.”

“He could have gotten it together after work,” said David. “Once he heard it was my birthday.”

“Did he, though?” said Stevie. “Or did he already have that frame picked out for you, just waiting for a time when he thought he could get away with giving it to you without it becoming immediately apparent what a massive crush he had on you?”

David pursed his mouth, trying not to show his smile. He swayed into the counter. “You think he had a massive crush on me?”

Stevie rolled her eyes.

“We’re going out tomorrow night,” said David. “You and me.”

“What are we doing?”

“I’ll figure it out.” 

“That sounds ominous.”

“You’ll like it. I’m good at planning. Have fun with Bree!” David turned to sail away, feeling very magnanimous because he was an excellent friend, and also because Patrick had had a massive crush on him. Then he turned back. 

“What?” Stevie demanded, still not looking up from her screen.

“Do you know where I could get a box?”

“Like a coffin?” Stevie turned back to him with a fake customer service smile.

David held up his hands. “Around this big.”

“A breadbox,” said Stevie. “A shoe box?”

“A nice box,” David clarified. “I’m thinking . . . like lacquerware. It could be Japanese. Or Russian. It could be made out of cypress. And it’s mostly black, but the lacquer would have a tasteful design. Gold. Possibly some red but not too much. The inside should definitely be gold leaf.”

Stevie stared at him. “Why don’t you have Mutt make you one?”

“Like Mutt knows anything about Japanese lacquerware.” David thought about this. “Raw wood could work, I suppose. Teak. It’d have to be lined, though. Satin? Velvet. No, I think there should be lacquer.”

“What is this for?”

“No reason.”

“Uh-huh,” said Stevie.

“You don’t know where I could get that?”

“There’s a shop in Elmdale that only sells Japanese cypress boxes with black lacquer and gold leaf.”

“Really?” David perked up. He hadn’t thought it was going to be that easy.

“Sure,” said Stevie. “Right next to the store that only sells those little forks you wanted.”

“I don’t understand how I’m supposed to eat shrimp without an oyster fork,” David said, still feeling very embittered by this.

Shaking her head, Stevie put her chin in her hand. “However do you live?”

“No help on boxes, then.”

“Not unless you tell me what it’s for.”

“It’s private.”

“Friends don’t keep secrets.”

“Says the woman who’s been dating a guy we broke up with six months ago this whole time.”

“Technically I never broke up with him.”

David blinked at her again. “You appall me,” he said abruptly, turning to leave.

“Have fun looking for your lacquerware gold leaf teak casket,” Stevie said, turning back to her computer.

“You’re not a good friend,” David called back.

Before he left, he saw Stevie give her computer a little smile. David felt himself smile too.

*

 **Patrick:** So…Gwen is a part of the local baseball league and asked me to pinch-hit tonight. I’d been wanting to join but I was too late for try-outs so I said yes

 **David:** Who’s gwen what’s pinch-hitting

 **Patrick:** The guy I’m stepping in for broke his leg. I think I’m going to try and take his place for the rest of the season  
**Patrick:** I mean if they want a shortstop

 **David:** Are you speaking French to me

 **Patrick:** Yes David it’s french  
**Patrick:** So I won’t be free tonight

 **David:** ok

 **Patrick:** Tomorrow night.

 **David:** I can’t  
**David:** I’m sorry normally I’d move it but it’s Stevie and she’s idk  
**David:** I don’t know what to do  
**David:** About her

 **Patrick:** Are you upset with her

 **David:** no  
**David:** yes  
**David:** Idk she’s like depressed or something and she never told me  
**David:** I just thought she would have told me

 **Patrick:** Is there anything I can do

 _You can be Patrick_ , David thought, but he didn’t text it.

 **David:** no

David’s phone began to ring in his hand. He almost dropped it, but it was Patrick. Being Patrick. Suddenly Patrick was very much _too_ Patrick. David didn’t want to answer, but he couldn’t _not_ answer, so he closed his eyes, screwed up his face, and swiped the phone. “Hi, I didn’t mean to tell you my problems.”

There was a pause. “Right, you’ve never told me your problems before.”

David’s face twisted even more. “They’re not my problems; they’re Stevie’s.”

“You’ve never made anybody else’s problems your problems before either,” Patrick said. “That’s not like you at all. Freaking out because your sister is pregnant—that’s not something you would do.”

“Excuse me!” David’s eyes flew open. “I did _not_ freak out.”

“You’re right. On a David scale, that was just a Friday.”

David tried to process this. He needed his whole head to do it. “I have a _scale_ now?”

“Sure. One for orgasms, another for freak-outs.”

“Well, can we talk about the orgasm one, because I’m not sure I like this conversation!”

“So you’re not freaked out about Stevie?”

“Why would I be freaked out about Stevie?”

“Just checking.”

David felt everything settle inside him, because Patrick, being Patrick, had made the whole world seem less dire. “I’m a little freaked out about Stevie,” he said, more calmly. 

“Because of—the guy she’s seeing?”

“What? No. Pfft. I think—I think it hurts her. That—that we’re going out,” he blurted.

“Because you two used to . . . be together?”

“Ugh,” David said. “No.”

David could hear the smile in Patrick’s voice. “You’re gonna have to explain this a little more. I can’t see your face, so I’m not getting the other fifty sides to this story.”

“What does my face have to do with anything?”

Patrick laughed.

“She . . .” David scowled. “She’s not _good_. At having people. People who care for her and don’t treat her like—like—like skaggy drunk drug addicts treat people. She’s not good at that, and—and, well, in some ways, me and her—I mean, we get along. For whatever reason.”

“I can’t possibly see why.”

“Me neither,” David said earnestly. “But we’re friends, and it’s the first friend I’ve—she’s ever—um. If I say she’s jealous, you’re going to think there’s still something between us, and there’s not. I _swear_ there’s not; it’s just—you don’t really understand, about—about her and—and I, we . . .”

“I understand.” Patrick’s voice was very gentle. “Thank you for telling me that. About Stevie.”

“Well, I mean, now I have to deal with her being—whatever, and it’s not going to make the bags under my eyes any better than they were when I thought Symphonie was going to happen, so—I just wanted to warn you.”

“Duly noted.”

“I didn’t mean to tell you any of that.”

“That’s also unlike you, saying things you didn’t intend to.”

“M‘kay, but.” David made a face. “You’re not funny.”

“Mm. Are you sure?”

David’s face turned into a smile. He didn’t like it. “Yuh-uh, I’m sure.”

“You know, because I’ve been told I’m funny.”

The smile pushed harder on David’s face. “But you’re not.”

“That’s funny,” said Patrick, “because it’s almost like I can _hear_ you smiling. But if I’m not funny, you must be smiling at something else.”

“I am!”

“Great. What?”

“Um, so don’t tell Stevie I said any of that stuff.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

David believed him. He believed him, which was the strangest thing; it was strange to ask for something and have someone tell you they would do it for you, then trust that they would do it—when it was something precious, like a secret.

“Besides,” Patrick said, “Stevie seems like she’d rather remain mysterious, and she watches all those horror movies. What if she put me in a woodchipper, because I knew too much?”

“Ew.” Now David could hear Patrick’s smile. Patrick wasn’t even saying anything, but David could _hear_ it, over the phone; he knew what that mouth looked like. “Thank you for the pancakes,” David heard himself say.

“Were they good?”

“All pancakes are good.”

“Thank you for last night.”

“Was it good?” David quipped, then winced.

At some point, this constant need for affirmation was going to drive Patrick insane. _I take it back!_ he wanted to scream, but Patrick said, “I’d say all sex is good. But you’d know I don’t think it’s true.”

“Well, I know for a fact it’s not true,” David said, “but we were talking about last night in particular.”

“I was talking about the pancakes this morning in particular,” said Patrick. “You’re the one who generalized.”

“So you’re not going to say anything,” David said. “About last night.”

There was another pause. David could hear Patrick smiling in it. “I already said several things about it, I think.”

“Right.” David could feel himself swaying. He could feel himself; he tried to stop; he tried; he couldn’t. “But what were they?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Um.”

“I’m glad Alexis is okay.”

“Patrick.”

“I think it’s great you’re hanging out with Stevie.”

“Patrick.”

“Want to go out Monday night? I’ll take you on a date.”

“Patr—where?”

“There’s a pizza place in Elmdale,” said Patrick. “It’s not very romantic, but I’ve heard the pizza’s pretty good there.”

“At Eddie Q’s? It’s _very_ good there.”

“Oh. You’ve been?” 

“Why do you sound so disappointed?”

“No reason.”

David felt himself began to smile again. “You like taking me to new places.”

“No, I don’t. Shade Tree’s been there for years.”

“New to me places,” David clarified. “You think you’re surprising me.”

“Not _surprising_ you.” Patrick didn’t have a smile in his voice now. “I just—I want to keep things fresh.”

“Fresh.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Patrick’s voice had gone even tighter, and the Patrick-thing in David’s chest wanted to wrap him up, make him feel safe, and David couldn’t help but smile.

“You’re very fresh, Patrick.”

“Yeah,” Patrick said flatly. “Okay. I get it.”

David’s smile grew bigger, harder to contain. “I don’t think you do.”

“So I’ll pick you up at the store? On Monday.”

“Patrick.”

“A customer just came in, so I’ve got to—”

“You don’t have to woo me,” David said loudly. He’d wanted to tease Patrick about this some more, but he’d misjudged how anxious Patrick was about it, if he was already trying to escape the conversation. “I’m—consider me already wooed. I’m—I’m wooed. I’ve been wooed; you don’t have to—to keep it fresh.”

“David.” A smile was back, a little one; David could hear it. “I’m not doing it to woo you.”

“Oh. Then what is it for?”

“Because I like you.”

David tried to process that, someone doing stuff like taking him on dates because they liked him, and not because they were trying to seduce him. It sounded fake.

“I want you to have a good time,” Patrick went on. “I _like_ showing you a good time. I like—I like making things exciting for you.”

“It’s—it’s already—I’m already . . .” _You’re already exciting for me_. “You don’t need to, though,” David said instead.

“I know I don’t need to. I want to.”

“But isn’t it—isn’t it a lot of trouble?” David said, and he didn’t mean to say it; his voice was an undertone.

“Finding places to take you out?” The smile was getting bigger. “When the Cookie Mill is closed, yeah.”

“I still want to go to the Cookie Mill.”

“More than Eddie Q’s Pizza?”

“That’s a really hard choice.” David was beginning to feel better about this. He found that he actually believed the things that Patrick was saying. A little.

“Pizza Monday,” said Patrick. “Cookie Mill Tuesday.”

David was in his room, Alexis blessedly absent, and Patrick’s voice was so warm and amused that David kind of wanted to crawl under the covers in his bed, so he could be closer and more alone with Patrick, nothing but Patrick’s voice in his ear. Was that weird? He’d already made his bed. “That’s a lot of planning ahead. I told Stevie you were spontaneous.”

“Why would you say a thing like that?”

“I don’t know,” David said, shrugging. “I thought maybe you were.”

Patrick laughed. “Maybe I am. I’ll decide in the moment.”

Patrick had said there was a customer, and David felt like they were somehow nearing the end of the conversation, and it was terrible. It was terrible; he didn’t want Patrick to hang up; he wanted to make Patrick laugh again. “Um. I liked sucking your cock,” David blurted.

Patrick did laugh, kind of. “Okay, thanks. Good to know.”

David started swaying again. “Want to have phone sex?”

A short breathy little chuckle—that counted as making him laugh. “I’m at the store.”

“Mm-hm. You don’t have to say anything.” David had thought about this, about what had happened the first time they’d had phone sex. He thought he knew what Patrick needed, now; he could do a better job of it. “I could get on my knees. I could get you unbuckled. I could get your jeans undone; I could—”

“David—”

“I could take you out, get you hard—”

“I know you could, but I—”

“Do you want my mouth on it? I could suck you, hard, just the tip, I’d get my tongue—”

“David,” Patrick said breathlessly. “Stop.”

David bit his tongue, hard.

“I can’t right now, okay? I’m at the store.”

“Mm-hm.” David jerked his head up and down.

“I want to,” Patrick said. “Some other time. Okay?”

“Mm-hm,” David said. “Yep.” In case Patrick didn’t hear.

“Are you okay?”

“Great. I’m great; are you—are you?”

“You don’t sound—great.”

Patrick sounded worried, and David wished there was a fire he could step into that would peel off all of his skin and melt his muscles and made his eyes pop out, like that movie Stevie had made him watch, because that would feel so much better than he felt right now. “I didn’t mean to,” David said in a rush, “make you uncomfortable; um, I’d never— _never—_ I’d never want to, if you didn’t—”

“I want to,” Patrick said. “Just not right now.”

“Uh-huh.”

“That customer needs to check out,” said Patrick. “I really have to go.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

David opened his mouth. _Why wouldn’t I be?_ sat on the tip of his tongue, and then _Sorry_. Patrick didn’t need to hear either of those things. Patrick was at work. He had to talk to customers. “Yeah,” David said. “I’m okay. Have—have a good day, Patrick.”

“You too,” Patrick said, and David hung up.

David threw his phone on the bed. Then he went to look at it, in case Patrick had texted him in the last two seconds. Then he looked at Instagram, because that would distract him, right? It didn’t. Patrick hadn’t texted him in the last twenty-three seconds, either. David switched to his photos, pulled up the picture of Patrick, smiling in the stockroom, looking tired. There was one where he was laughing, his eyes crinkled, his smile so big in his soft, exhausted face. Then David found the picture that Alexis had taken, the one with David’s hands in Patrick’s pockets, the one where Patrick was looking at him and David looked so happy. 

Fuck. Fuck. This was a problem. This was such a problem.

 _I need more pictures of you,_ he wrote in a text to Patrick, then deleted it. Patrick didn’t need to hear more from him just now.

 _You’re clingy_ , Eliana had told him. And Sebastien. And Cynthia. _Needy,_ Rafe had said.

Goddammit. David had _things to do_ today. He had to find a box. Where was Alexis? He needed the car. He couldn’t ask Mom—for one thing, she never knew where Alexis was, but for another, if you were going to confront Moira Rose, you had to have time and be emotionally prepared. 

David had had sex with Patrick last night. Really great sex. Three times. Then once again in the morning. Patrick had told him over and over that he was beautiful, that he wanted him. Oh God. Oh _God_.

David opened the door between the rooms. “Mom?”

Mom had no idea where Alexis was and immediately enlisted David’s help with one of her projects. David pretended he didn’t care, but the way that Mom was always about Mom was really nice sometimes. She hardly ever made anything about him ever, which meant he could sometimes ignore himself for hours on end, and that could be very nice, especially because she had correct opinions about everything and sometimes touched him—on his arm, on his shoulder. She sometimes touched her jewelry that way, her wigs, Dad. David wanted to be touched like jewelry, something owned and beautiful and beloved.

*

Dad came back from wherever sometime later and tried to talk to him, but David was busy _decoupaging_ , which he thought was very obvious, but Dad was generally ignorant about important things, so David stopped trying to explain.

“I know what decoupaging is,” Dad said, a little defensively.

“Then it’s obvious I need to _concentrate_ ,” said David.

Alexis came back from wherever else just as David was doing finishing touches, and he was bored by then anyway and truly annoyed, because he had things to do. “Where were you?”

“Umm?” said Alexis, also defensively. “I was out.”

“Out where?” said David. “It’s not like you have a life; why would you take the car _almost all day_?”

“ _I_ don’t have a life,” repeated Alexis. “ _You’re_ the one without a life.”

“I think we all have lives,” said Dad, looking between them with some alarm.

David ignored him, as was generally best. “Oh my God!” he said to Alexis. “I have a job, and a business that I started, and a—a Patrick; I have a Patrick. The only thing you do is jogging! You don’t need a car for that!”

“I’m not sure you’re an authority on jogging, dear,” said Mom, who was mostly distracted by putting together images for a different collage, as though the one he had just made her wasn’t good enough. Ugh.

“I know you don’t need a car for it!” David told her.

“Oh, I think you do,” Moira said dismissively.

Alexis stuck her tongue out at him, but then said, “I was at tutoring.” She lifted her chin. “Mom got me a tutor.”

Because David still let these things shock him, his mouth dropped open and he glared over at Mom, who hadn’t even heard because when she was looking at pictures of herself, she tuned out most other things.

“Don’t looked so surprised, David,” said Alexis. “I can study things.”

“Oh, he knows,” said Dad. “He knows you can study things.”

David’s jaw snapped shut, his head whipping around to look at Dad, because what the hell was he even saying? Dad glanced at David, then turned back to Alexis.

“In fact . . .” Licking his lips, Dad did his awkward little laugh. “I’m sure your brother—is actually looking out for you.”

Maybe Dad knew David had gotten Alexis the tutor. It would have been nice if he’d actually just said it, but he hadn’t, and Mom still wasn’t even paying attention to the conversation.

“Ugf!” Alexis was saying. “I don’t need anyone looking out for me. Besides, ‘saving me from moths’ is not actually looking out for me.”

“They’ll suck out your soul while you sleep,” David told her, kind of hating her.

“Ugh!” said Alexis, because he’d actually made her believe it for like, a minute, when she was five. 

Never mind he’d believed it for ten years. Souls were bright, right? Just like streetlamps, and why else would they congregate at streetlamps, plotting hostile bodily takeover? It was suspicious, but Alexis was stomping back to their room, and David didn’t have time to argue about moths. Besides, they’d argued about it like, fifteen thousand times before. Getting up, he followed her. “I need the car keys.”

“Doesn’t Patrick have a car?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Alexis made a face at him. “Aren’t you like, attached at the hip now, or something?”

“I spent one night! One night not in this god-forsaken room, and what are you, now, suffering separation anxiety?”

“No,” said Alexis, in this stubborn little voice that actually meant yes.

Fucking _fuck_. What the fuck was wrong with everyone? He wasn’t allowed to like, _have a dalliance_ without everyone getting jealous over it?

“I just don’t see why you need a car if he can take you wherever,” Alexis said moodily.

“Okay, first of all,” said David, “Patrick is his own person and doesn’t have to drive me around.”

“That’s right. David is his own person too.”

“Oh my God!” David said, whirling around to see Dad hovering awkwardly in the doorway. What, had he liked, _followed them_ into their room? It wouldn’t be the first time, but what was his deal right now anyway?

“I just meant, you’re responsible for your own actions,” said Dad. “Not anyone else’s.”

“Okay?” David said, because he had no idea where this was coming from. Turning back to Alexis, he went on, “Secondly, he’s at _work_. He can’t drive me around because he has _work_. It’s something adults do.”

“I know what work is, David!” snapped Alexis. “I had a job.”

“And third, Patrick is busy tonight, and I need the car.”

“Busy! Already?” Alexis made a pouty face. “I thought he liked you.”

“He’s _busy_ ,” David snapped. “He’s playing in a baseball game, not—not frolicking about with Norwegian professional women!”

“Okay, that was alleged,” said Alexis. “The tabloids had it in for Stavros.”

“Baseball game?” said Dad.

“What?” said David, turning back to Dad. “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” said Dad. “Patrick seems very nice.”

“Patrick _is_ very nice. He’s the nicest—what do you want?” said David, shaking his head clear of trying to explain to Dad just how much better Patrick was than every other person who had ever existed.

“I just—didn’t know he was into baseball. Remember, David? You used to play basebal.?”

“No.” David turned away, an ocean of shame washing over him. People drowned in oceans.

“I remember hearing about you picking flowers in the outfield,” said Alexis.

“I don’t know what an outfield is,” David snapped. “I never—did that.”

“I took you to your games,” said Dad. “We had fun, didn't we?”

“Literally every part of what you just said is revisionist history,” David said, finally turning back to him. “It was _not_ fun, and you took me to exactly _three_ games, and I have _excised_ that entire block of history from my mind.”

“Jeez, David,” said Alexis. “Why are you in such a bad mood?”

“I thought you were pregnant!” David waved his hands in the air.

“Well, I’m not!” Alexis waved her hands back.

“We should go!” Dad announced.

“Go!” David said, flapping his arms even more. “Where?”

“To a ballgame!”

David’s flapping stopped so his whole body could fill with horror.

“It will be fun,” said Dad. “You know, father son bonding.”

David’s jaw shut with another little click. “We don’t do _bonding_.”

“And I could get to know your boyfriend better,” Dad went on blithely.

“You won’t, because he’s playing a game,” said David, then replayed things in his head. “And he’s not my boyfriend! He’s—he’s . . . a dalliance.”

“Oh,” Dad said, in his clueless way. “It—it seems rather long for a dalliance. Haven’t you been going out . . .”

“Two weeks,” said Alexis.

“Is literally everyone counting this?” David asked, feeling betrayed.

“Patrick is counting,” said Alexis. “Actually, I feel like counting’s his thing? He’s kind of nerdy, David.”

“You take that back,” David told her, then thought about it. “No, you’re right, he’s nerdy. But admit that nerds are hot, like in—in _A Beautiful Mind_ , or _Legally Blonde_.”

“ _Legally Blonde_ doesn’t have nerds,” said Alexis. 

David began flapping again. “Elle Woods!”

“Is that Reese Witherspoon? Um.” Alexis looked so pitying. “Sorry, Reese is cool? Which makes her automatically _not_ a nerd.”

“Patrick is cool,” said David, who couldn’t believe he was making this argument with Alexis, who literally didn’t matter.

“Where is this ballgame?” 

David whirled again on his father. “We’re not going to a _ballgame_.”

“Why wouldn't we?” said Dad. “I have that ball cap.”

Alexis tittered. “Why wouldn’t you, David? Dad has a ball cap!”

“Oh, did you . . .” Dad looked at Alexis. “Did you want to come too?”

“Mm,” said Alexis. “That sounds—super fun? But I’m . . . dirty from studying; I need to go take a shower. Keys, David!” Throwing the keys at him, she scurried off to the bathroom, and David was left alone, with Dad, who wanted to wear a ball cap, ew.

Ew ew ew. Why was this happening? Why was Dad being so weird? David just wanted to go to Elmdale, spend six hours searching for a box that he was never going to find until all the stores were closed and he was upset because the restaurants were closed too, even Eddie Q’s Pizza. He’d cry all the way home and get ice cream at that gas station, because everything was awful.

David didn’t even know why everything was awful. Mom’s photo album for the Schitt’s Creek time capsule looking _stunning_ , and Alexis wasn’t having Symphonie, and David was going out with Patrick, who was literally perfect in every way. And David had tried to have phone sex with him just to keep him on the phone, which was just the kind of slutty thing he thought he wasn’t doing any more. He was better than that, he had decided, not to mention Patrick probably wouldn’t like it. David didn’t know why he’d done it; there was no reason to. He’d had a good night with Patrick, such an excellent night, with so much sex, and it had been so good. Everything had been so good.

You can’t always tell if someone is drowning, David had read once. Like if they were in an ocean—not a specific ocean, any ocean, say an ocean of shame—their mouth might keep coming above water but it might not be long enough to breathe, and if they were trying to breathe they couldn’t call for help, and if they were just struggling to stay above the waves, they couldn’t even gesture for help. It could look like they were laughing and playing around while shame filled up their lungs and they couldn’t breathe and they sank and you just watched them from the beach, smiling and waving.

“Come on.”

David opened his eyes, and Dad was standing there in a baseball hat. When had he gotten that?

“It will be fun,” Dad went on.

“It’s three o’clock,” David whispered.

“What’s that?” Dad put his hand to his ear in his really fake way.

“It’s three in the afternoon,” David said, very loudly. “Patrick’s game isn’t until later tonight. After he’s done with work. I mean—he wouldn’t leave the store. So I assume it must not be until after.”

“Oh!” said Dad. “Then we can go—tonight?”

“I’ll . . . I’ll check with Patrick.”

“Good,” Dad said. “Good.” Then he just stood there, looking at David, lingering.

 _What do you want_ , every atom of David’s body screamed, but what if Dad told him what he wanted? David would probably give it to him, even if it was the opposite of what he wanted. He sometimes did the opposite of what he wanted. Something was wrong with him.

“Where are you taking the car?” said Dad.

“Why?” David said, clutching the keys. “Do you need it?” 

“No,” Dad said quickly. “No. I just—wanted to see if you wanted . . . company. I could be company.”

“No,” David said, bringing the keys closer to him.

“Where are you going?”

 _It’s my business!_ “To Elmdale,” he said instead.

“What for?”

“It’s—private.”

“Not something you can tell your—your father?” Dad gave him this rueful little smile, as though telling him private things was a thing that fathers and sons did. Neither of them would know. How would either of them know?

“No,” David said, and Dad just looked so fucking disappointed that David said more, his voice catching. “It’s for Patrick.”

“Oh,” said Dad. “Okay, then. Do you wanna grab dinner before the game? Maybe some dogs?”

David stared at him.

“Or the Tater Surprise?” Dad said, hopeful.

The Tater Surprise was tater tots smothered in cheese and bacon, and it was unfair that Dad knew the way to David’s heart just because they’d been forced to eat dinner at Café Tropical so many times together when they had first moved here. “I’ll ask Patrick when the game is,” David said weakly.

“All right! Baseball! Father and son!” Smiling, Dad gave David a great big slap on the shoulder, which caused David to jump. “This is going to be great!” said Dad.

“Mm-hm,” said David.

*

 **David:** Emergency my dad wants to go to your game. You don’t want him to come, right? So I’ll tell him no

 **Patrick:** I don’t mind  
**Patrick:** You seem like you mind. Do you want me to say I don’t want him to come?

 **David:** yes

 **Patrick:** I don’t want him to come  
**Patrick:** Contrary to popular belief though I can’t actually control who comes to baseball games

 **David:** Did you say that because you don’t want him to come?

 **Patrick:** You said you didn’t want him to

 **David:** So is that why you said you didn’t want him to

 **Patrick:** yes

 **David:** So you do want him to come

 **Patrick:** Dying for it

 **David:** I don’t want to go

 **Patrick:** You didn’t tell me he was bringing you.  
**Patrick:** Dying for it even more

 **David:** Can you please just say you don’t want us there

 **Patrick:** I don’t want you there

 **David:** But is that the truth

 **Patrick:** no

David sent him the _What is the truth?_ Oprah gif. He felt that it was relevant.

 **Patrick:** Oprah has great hair

 **David:** She has great everything  
**David:** You’re trying to distract me

 **Patrick:** I didn’t know you liked oprah

 **David:** Like is a weak word for what I feel for oprah

 **Patrick:** I didn’t know you loved oprah

 **David:** Love is a strong word  
**David:** For what I feel for anyone

 **Patrick:** Anyone really

 **David:** Unless you mean Mariah carey

 **Patrick:** I think I know who that is

 **David:** I need to lie down

 **Patrick:** Do what you need to do

 **David:** Idk what he wants  
**David:** Dad. Idk why he’s doing this  
**David:** Sometimes he won’t leave me alone

 **Patrick:** You said he didn’t pay attention to you

 **David:** I meant except when he does

 **Patrick:** Sound logic.

David looked at that text for a while, because Patrick wasn’t really texting like someone who thought David was a slut. He was going around texting things like, “Sound logic,” because he was sassy and cute and smart and cute and funny and cute, and David’s heart was slowly lifting his chest, like a bubble underwater, rising to the surface. 

**David:** He thinks I can’t do anything  
**David:** I mean for myself  
**David:** I mean he thinks I can’t do anything so he checks up on me a lot all of the sudden and it’s weird and he won’t stop and I lost a job bc of it

 **Patrick:** That doesnt sound fair to you. I’m sorry

There was something about the way Patrick texted, where you could tell whether he was being mocking or not. This wasn’t mocking, and David looked at that one for a long time as well.

 **David:** I just can’t figure out what I did wrong this time

 **Patrick:** Maybe it has more to do with him dealing with his own mistakes than anything you did

 **David:** He doesn’t make mistakes

 **Patrick:** Yes he does

 **David:** How would you know  
**David:** Did you know he started rose video when he was 17

 **Patrick:** I did know that actually. He still makes mistakes. Everyone does  
**Patrick:** Like rose video. Not the best name for a video store  
**Patrick:** Plus some guy embezzled from that business for years  
**Patrick:** Or so I heard

 **David:** That’s not dads fault

 **Patrick:** Its not your fault either

 **David:** I never said it was

 **Patrick:** ok 

**David:** So you don’t mind if we come to your game

 **Patrick:** Yes if it would make you happy, no if it would not

 _I don’t know what would make me happy_ David swiped, because Patrick was confusing him, but then he deleted it.

 **David:** ok  
**David:** What time is the game  
**David:** And where

Patrick texted him the time and place. That was that, David supposed, so he drove to Elmdale. By the time he got there, Patrick had texted him again. It was a picture of Mariah Carey.

It was one of the most beautiful ones, although all pictures of her were beautiful. Her hair was everywhere, face tinged blue by the lighting, a hot pink background, and David felt it again, that thing that had made him shout _I love you!_ at her, where it was crowded and noisy and he could barely see her, and there had been no way she could hear him. David felt it, that hot, too-big feeling; she was the most perfect person on the planet. He needed to listen to all of _Butterfly_ like, right now.

 **David:** This is a perfect text.

 **Patrick:** You mean I should have quoted Mariah cary at you instead of bare naked ladies 

**David:** yes

 **Patrick:** Good to know

 **David:** Could you send me a picture of you  
**David:** It doesn’t have to be now I just mean sometime  
**David:** When you want to

 **Patrick:** sure

 **David:** I mean if you want to

 **Patrick:** Don’t you want more pics of mariah

 **David:** always

 **Patrick:** You know rays good at photoshop

 **David:** don’t

 **Patrick:** You could have pics of Mariah AND me

 **David:** Pls don’t

 **Patrick:** are you sure

 **David:** Don’t say things like this to me. I like you I want to keep liking you

 **Patrick:** But how much do you like me on a scale of 1-10

 **David:** I don’t know WHY I like you  
**David:** I take it all back

Patrick sent him five more pictures of Mariah. One of them was her crying over Prince in her Sweet Fantasy World Tour and it was so fucking beautiful and sad that David felt much better about everything, even though he never did find the box he was looking for. He did find a beautiful black silk scarf, which would work to put in the box if the one he found wasn’t lined. He might put it in there regardless; having silk loose inside seemed more elegant than lining. 

That was some progress at least, besides his orders this morning, but he spent so long choosing the perfect silk scarf that he was late getting back to Schitt’s Creek to pick up Dad, and the baseball field was halfway back toward Elmdale. He had to text Dad and say they couldn’t get _dogs_ , and Dad texted back to say maybe they could eat after the game. God, Dad was really pushing this. David wondered how long it had taken Dad to type all that out. Since moving to Schitt’s Creek Dad used “u” instead of “you” and “2” instead of “to” and included lots of emojis in all of his texts. Sometimes David didn’t understand how they were related. 

David picked him up at the motel and tried not to be nervous, alone with Dad in the car, alone with Dad being overly solicitous and attentive. Maybe he was going to try to start telling David how to run the store? Dad used to think that David would go into the family business. That expectation had scarred David, but it wasn’t actually Dad’s fault. David had thought he was going into the family business too.

When David was little, he had wanted to _be_ Dad. He’d loved Dad’s suits and Dad’s cologne and Dad’s car and Dad’s desk and Dad’s desk chair. He’d loved going to work with Dad in the big tall building with the walls made out of glass and the elevator that went all the way up. People always said things to him when he came to work with Dad, things like, “You’ll handle these accounts when you’re older!” And, “One day, you’ll do a merger like this!” and, “I bet you can’t wait to be CEO!”

“Mom,” David had asked, at the ripe age of seven, feeling confused and vaguely uncomfortable as a result of these comments. It had never occurred to him he would need to do anything besides smell nice and wear amazing suits to be Dad. “What does Dad do?”

“You know what he does,” said Mom. “He goes to the tall building and signs his name on papers.”

“Why does he sign his name on papers?”

“I have no idea,” she said. “But if he signs it large enough, we drink champagne.”

“Maybe he should sign it smaller,” David said, because he didn’t like champagne. It tasted gross.

He was feeling skeptical about Mom’s explanation, so he’d asked Adelina what a CEO was.

“It means you tell everyone what to do,” said Adelina. “You’re very important; you make decisions about important things.”

Being a CEO sounded awful. Whenever David went places with Mom, people pinched his cheek and told him he was cute. They never seemed to think he was going to do anything important at all, except _grow into a handsome man_.

David really wanted to _grow into a handsome man._ He didn’t want to sign papers or tell people what to do or make decisions about important things. Mom was an actress, and that meant being beautiful all day; that was what she said; you were beautiful and you gave people your heart. “And they give it back to you,” she said. “You expose everything you are, and they accept it; they want more of it; they always want more of you.” And when you were an actress, you got to wear wigs and dresses and pretty shoes. 

David wanted to be an actress. He wanted to wear wigs and dresses and pretty shoes. Mom already let him try all of them on; her shawls and coats were prettier than Dad’s suits, and probably more comfortable, too. They were allowed to _flow_. None of Dad’s clothes _flowed_. “I want to be an actress,” he had told his parents when he was eight, wearing Mom’s ermine stole, beaded belt, and satin shoes.

“And so you shall!” Mom had said brightly, opening up her arms and allowing him to cuddle with her. She had seemed so delighted by this announcement, but Dad had seemed surprised. David had thought that it was because he was stunned by how gorgeous David had looked in that stole, but. Later he had realized Dad had been disappointed. He had always been rather disappointed.

“I’m not disappointed,” said Dad.

Gasping, David jumped about a foot, which was not a good idea because he was driving. 

Dad had been riding silently in the car for nearly ten minutes, and David had mostly just been missing that ermine stole. It had been in the summer house when their belongings were repossessed, Mom had said.

“I didn’t say anything,” David said, appalled.

“Well I . . . might have.” Dad looked down at his knees, then over at David, who didn’t want to look.

He didn’t want to look; he was driving, and whenever Dad talked like that it was mortifying. It was mortifying. He sounded guilty or, or, or embarrassed, and—well he _should_ be, because whatever it was, he didn’t need to say it! David didn’t like embarrassing things! Especially with Dad! 

It was hot in here. Was it too hot in here? David wanted to roll down a window. Why was he always wearing a sweater? It was spring!

“I shouldn’t have said—what I said,” said Dad.

“What!” David said, except it sounded more like another gasp. He kept his eyes fixed on the road. “What did you say?”

“When we thought—Alexis was pregnant,” said Dad. “We thought—I thought . . . I said I was disappointed in you.”

David’s breath caught.

“You—I know you take care. Of your sister. I know you’ve taken care . . . I know you’ve done a lot. Over the years. Maybe when your mother and I—when we weren’t paying as close attention.”

David couldn’t see the road. It was in front of him, but he couldn’t see it; this was dangerous. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “How?” he heard himself say.

“Um,” said Dad. “How?”

“How could you know,” David said loudly, “if you weren’t paying attention; how could you have any idea of what—of anything I’ve done for her? Of anything I did?”

Dad cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Stevie might have mentioned a few things . . .”

“ _Stevie_.”

“Yes, well . . .” Dad did his little cough again. “Did you really bail Alexis out of a Turkish prison?”

“They thought she was a journalist,” David said, possibly too softly to be heard. He didn’t like to think about those sorts of things; it had really stressed him out. It made him gain weight. It gave him ulcers. It wasn’t pretty. He’d only ever really wanted to be pretty; that was the whole problem.

“Yes, well,” Dad said. “You’re a—a good brother.”

For a moment everything felt blank. The car was no longer too hot; nor was it too cold. Nothing made sounds, even ambient ones, and inside David felt scooped clean, blessedly empty, just a person in a car with Dad, not a thing to worry about. Then David could hear the road again, and his face was doing something. “Because she’s not pregnant,” David said, mostly to stop his face.

“No,” said Dad. “Well, yes, I’m—we’re all glad about that. But I meant—you’d be a good brother, regardless. You are a good brother. When you gave her that owl. I never told you that.”

All the pleasant stillness went away, and David whipped his head around. “How did _you_ know about the owl?”

Dad’s immense brows furrowed. “You argue about it all the time; I thought it was common knowledge.”

“Common knowledge!”

“You—you thought I didn’t know about Athena?” Dad sounded hurt.

“How did you know her name was Athena!”

“You talked about her rather a lot,” said Dad, “for an owl.”

“How much are you supposed to talk about owls!”

“I don’t know. Probably less than you did. Not! That there’s anything wrong with that,” Dad added hastily. “I’m impressed that you were able to take care of an animal all by yourself.”

“It was stuffed. It was a stuffed owl.”

“You had a taxidermied animal? Weren’t you rather young?”

“ _Stuffed_ ,” said David. “Made out of—I don’t know—polyester!”

“Your mother let you have something made of polyester?”

“Adelina got it for me! At the zoo! When I was eight!”

“Okay. Okay,” Dad said, in that way that meant he didn’t really get it but was accepting you. He did it to Mom all the time.

 _Can we go back to the part where you said I was good_ , David wanted to say, but he knew that he couldn’t. He’d missed the opportunity to hear it again and revel in it, somewhere in the midst of talking about owls. Why were they talking about owls? “Why were you . . . ?” David’s voice was completely under his breath. Licking his lips, he tried again, a little louder. “Why were you talking to Stevie about—um, about me?”

“Well, we both care about you, David.”

 _How much_. David tried not to squirm in his seat. At least he had an excuse not to look at Dad, because he was driving. Soon he wouldn’t be driving, and then what would he do? He wished he could drive forever; he wished they could drive to Mexico. They could go to Puerto Vallarta. David could wear sunglasses. He wouldn’t have to look at Dad at all, and Dad could have a gin and tonic, which was the most boring drink in the world, and he could talk to David all day about how much people cared about him. 

David licked his lips. “So, you and Stevie talk about me.”

“Only sometimes,” Dad said quickly.

“Mm-hm. What do you talk about?”

“She says—the store is going well.”

“So you talk about business.” David was trying to decide whether he was disappointed. On the one hand, talking about business wasn’t as interesting as talking about what a wonderful person he was. On the other hand, they could be talking about how successful Rose Apothecary was; that would be extremely interesting.

“Not that much,” said Dad. “You know, Stevie’s very impressed you’ve started your own business. She didn’t think you could do it.”

“She’s the one who told me to!” Then, _she’s impressed?_ went his brain. Of course she never would’ve told him that. He would never tell her he was impressed by her either.

“Well,” Dad said, equivocally. “I’m sure she’s just . . . not aware of the Rose entrepreneurial spirit. We’re innovators, David. We see market potential, and we invest.”

“Um, okay,” said David. “But if you want to talk about “market potential,” you need to talk to Patrick, because I literally have no idea what that means.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing him at the game.”

The fact that Dad and Patrick would _talk_ hadn’t really sunk in before. David had been too preoccupied by the idea of going to a baseball game, and Dad being weird, and Alexis being annoying, and himself having been a slut with Patrick over the phone just because Patrick had made him come so many times and David had felt way too good to continue feeling good for long. Now that David was thinking this through, though, he was realizing that Patrick was actually going to _meet_ his Dad—well, not officially, because Patrick claimed he had met both David’s parents at the opening—but still. They were probably going to—to shake hands and—and _converse_.

Dad would like Patrick. Patrick knew things about investment portfolios, even though he said he didn’t have one; he could talk about things like stock options and real estate investments and _depreciation_. Dad was going to _like_ him; Dad would see how sensible and savvy and really fucking smart Patrick was, and Dad would probably wonder how David had gotten him. David had never brought anyone like Patrick home before. Well, David never brought anyone home, not since he’d brought home that couple when he was eighteen. Dad had met very few of David’s— _dalliances_ before—except, well, Dad had met Jake. _Everyone_ had met Jake. But Dad was going to meet Patrick, and Dad was going to like him.

What did that mean? What would happen when David and Patrick broke up? It was such a small town. Would Dad still like Patrick? Would Alexis still like him? Would _David_ still—what about the store?

In some ways, David dating Patrick was the most responsible relationship choice David had ever made. But that wasn’t setting the bar that high, because David had thrown himself headlong once again into something that would be disastrous for him, because what about the store?

“We’re here,” David said, pulling into a dusty parking lot, beyond which he could see wooden stands. Just the sight of bleachers made him want to shudder.

“Bleachers!” said Dad. “It’s so nice to see a ballgame, isn’t it—son?”

Wow. So fun.

*

The game was very boring, but as soon as the players got on the field, David identified Patrick. He had on a little white uniform, which was very impressive, given that he had only found out he was _pinch-hitting_ today. He looked very cute in it. God, Patrick was so cute, so clean in white, and those pants were pleasantly snug, wow. Wow. 

Patrick was _sporty_. Sporty _and_ nerdy. Were there movies about this? There were probably movies. David could be the moody hot goth—Winona Ryder in the late eighties. David could be Winona Ryder, and Patrick could be the hot jock—this sounded like _Breakfast Club_ , never mind. Patrick was still cute, though, and David would be having lots of fantasies of Patrick doing nasty, dirty things to him under the bleachers, if he wasn’t sitting there with his dad.

Meanwhile his dad was really enjoying himself, making friends with people they were sitting next to on the bleachers. Dad was like that. He was good with people, and people liked him. Handsome, social, good at small-talk, Dad knew the appropriate, fake things to say to socialites and millionaires. It was harder for him in Schitt’s Creek, much harder, but he still got along okay. People thought he was normal. Leslie, some member of the Jazzagals who was sitting next to them in the bleachers, talked to him for like an hour about the conditions of the roads, her husband who owned a hardware store in Elmdale, and whether the strawberries would be early this year. Dad thought they would be.

The baseball field had a little refreshment table, so at one point when Patrick wasn’t on the field, David went down there with Dad to see what they had, which turned out to be lemonade, Big 8, gum, and mini-bags of chips. They bought two colas and three bags of chips, and David was picking up the pop cans when Patrick jogged up.

“Hi,” Patrick said, kissing him on the cheek.

“Hi,” David said uncertainly, distracted because Patrick had on _make-up_. It was that weird war-paint that baseball players did, but it made David think about how Patrick would look in eyeliner, except Patrick probably didn’t do things like eyeliner. He seemed well fixed in the masculine end of the gender performance spectrum, but who knew; David had also thought he was straight; you shouldn’t make assumptions.

“Hello, Mister Rose,” Patrick said, holding his hand out to Dad, just like David had imagined.

“Hello,” said Dad, taking Patrick’s hand and shaking it. “Good game out there today.”

“It’s a good team.” Patrick smiled, but David couldn’t help but think it wasn’t a real smile. It wasn’t a _Patrick_ smile.

“David said you were pinch-hitting?”

“Did he?” Patrick did smile then, a real one, a sly one, but it was aimed at David.

“I said you were an understudy,” David said loudly, and Patrick’s smile got bigger.

“You’ve played ball before?”

The smile went away as Patrick turned back to Dad. “Off and on. I played in high school, a bit at university.”

“Oh, what university?”

“Okay, I think half-time is over,” David said loudly, because _what university?_ was socialite small-talk and David hated it.

“Right, half-time,” Patrick said, smiling and leaning in to kiss David on the cheek again. His hand found David’s, but David was still holding both the pop cans, one in either hand. Patrick squeezed his hand anyway, as though to be reassuring, and then he was gone, jogging off and taking his cute white outfit and misplaced eyeliner with him.

“He’s nice,” said Dad.

 _He’s perfect_. David handed Dad a can, then opened his and took a sip, so he wouldn’t start trying to explain how Patrick was different than everyone else he’d dated and Dad should recognize that and be very impressed by David’s new life choices; he was dating a nice guy and he’d started his own business and he was a good brother.

Dad was looking at him.

“What,” David said, finally taking the pop away from his mouth and smacking his lips.

“Oh, nothing,” said Dad.

David picked up the bags of chips from the little sales table.

“You’re taking on a lot.”

David reared back and bared his teeth in confusion; he didn’t mean to.

“I just mean, mixing business and pleasure, that can be a lot of—of stress.”

“Okay, never use ‘pleasure’ and Patrick and me in the same sentence.”

“And you’re helping Alexis going to college; it’s a lot; that’s all I meant.”

“I’m not _helping_ Alexis; I found her a tutor. And I literally couldn’t _have_ a business without Patrick; he does all of the budgets and taxes and government—things.”

“Well,” said Dad, doing his encouraging little nod, “that’s good! It’s good to have a business partner you trust.”

“He’s not just my business partner.”

“Oh, I know,” said Dad, flustered.

 _He fucks me_ , David wanted to say, just to be absolutely, crystal clear on this topic, but he was already mortified by this conversation and didn’t need to mortify himself further. Dad already knew they were dating; David just didn’t like hearing Dad say “business partner,” as though that were more important than—the other thing.

“It’s great you’re seeing someone,” Dad went on, in his fumbling way.

“M‘kay,” David said, spinning on his heel to head back toward the bleachers.

Dad trotted to catch up. “I meant, you’re doing a lot, and—it’s impressive.”

Oh God. David could feel heat begin to claw into his cheeks. He didn’t know where to look, and his face was trying to do that thing again.

“I’m proud of you,” said Dad.

“I got you chips!” David said loudly, thrusting the bags at Dad and turning his face away. The smile was distorting his whole face; he couldn’t look at him; he didn’t know where to look.

“Thanks,” Dad said, taking a bag of ketchup chips.

They climbed up the bleachers, and David could still feel his face all twisted up. Dad started chatting with someone new, trying to involve David, who didn’t care. He couldn’t even concentrate on how cute Patrick was, because Dad was beside him, being distracting. He even tried to put his arm around David at one point, in that awkward Dad way; David couldn’t lift his eyes; Dad was proud of him. He was proud of him.

Baseball was stupid, but it wasn’t so bad; Dad was proud of him.

*

After the game ended the field was crowded. David hadn’t realized there were this many people here; he supposed there wasn’t much for people to do between here and Elmdale on a Saturday night.

 **Patrick:** Some of us are going out to travers bar in elmdale after the game. You’re invited if you want to come. Your dad is invited if you want him there

 **David:** Ok I’m not sure we might go to the cafe

 **Patrick:** How are you doing

 **David:** I went to a baseball game and Celine dion did not sing o Canada. What is even the point

 **Patrick:** Your life is so hard

“Hey David,” Patrick said, kissing David on the cheek while he was still reading Patrick’s last text. “Hi, Mister Rose.”

“Good game,” Dad said again.

“Congratulations,” David said, putting his phone in his pocket. It kinda seemed weird Patrick had been texting if he was literally walking his way over to him.

Patrick gave him a very amused smile. “You do know we lost.”

“Did you?”

“Thanks for coming to my game.” Patrick’s hand slid around David’s waist, then pulled him in—just as though David was a small thing that Patrick could move around. Then Patrick was kissing him again, once on the lips. “See you Monday?”

“We’re going to the café,” Dad said, “if you want to—join us.”

“I’m going out with some of the team.” Patrick turned toward Dad, but his arm stayed around David’s waist, hand on David’s hip.

It was possessive, almost, and David felt so pleased about it that he found himself looking at the ground. 

“Well, they’re welcome to come as well,” said Dad, sounding hopeful.

David sort of thought Patrick might repeat his invitation to go to the bar with the team, but “Thanks, I’ll check with them,” was all that Patrick said about it. “Have a good night.” Patrick squeezed David’s hip. “Monday.”

“Bye,” said David, still feeling startled and kind of overwhelmed by Patrick’s overt displays of affection in front of everybody, including Dad.

“Well,” said Dad, as Patrick trotted off again. “I guess it’s time to get going. Tater Surprise, right?”

“Yes,” said David, so pleased that Dad had remembered that he continued staring at the ground, so he got out his phone.

 **Patrick:** Do you want me to come to the cafe with you

David frowned down at his phone. Patrick had made it clear he was going out with the team, and David wasn’t sure why Patrick was asking this now.

 **David:** I thought you were going out with the cast

 **Patrick:** Its not a big deal. Do you need me or do you want time with your dad

David frowned harder. Did Patrick _want_ to go to the café? Did he feel awkward being around Dad? That made sense, _meeting the parents_ was supposed to be a thing, and the fact that Patrick had already met them in a non-relationship context just made it more complicated. But Patrick had put his arm around David’s waist and held onto his hip, and kissed David in front of Dad. David didn’t get it.

 **David:** No we’re good. Go to your thing

Patrick sent him a picture in reply—Patrick grinning in a green baseball cap, the silly war paint under his eyes, his arm slung around an older woman with short gray hair in the same baseball outfit, smiling uncomfortably for the camera.

 **Patrick:** This is gwen

*

Dinner with Dad was nice, and not just because of the Tater Surprise. Dad talked a little about the motel, which was boring, and David talked about the store, which Dad probably found boring, since David talked about the exfoliants and not the expense reports. After that they talked about Alexis, which was a little better, and then they talked about Mom, which was—David had to face it—basically the only thing they really had in common, because Dad didn’t understand her at all and loved her astronomically, like a love story over which people fought wars. 

The fact that Dad loved her like that always made David uncomfortably warm inside, as though the world was a far better place than he had ever dared to dream, though he often suspected Dad was just better than most people. He was better than all people, really; Mom thought so too, and Dad had said he was proud. It was a very good dinner.

Just as they were getting out of the car at the motel, Patrick called, so David said goodnight to Dad, and got back in the car. No way was he talking to Patrick with Alexis listening in. “Hi,” David said, a little breathless from having dived back into the driver’s seat.

“Hi,” said Patrick. “Just wanted to see how you are.”

Recalling Patrick’s earlier cagey behavior, David felt a little thrown by this. “Fine. How are you?”

“Tired,” said Patrick.

“Yes, well, you worked very hard throwing a ball around and trying to hit it with a stick and trying to catch it with the skin of a dead animal. No wonder you’re exhausted.”

“You love dead animals,” said Patrick. “Don’t pretend that that’s your problem.”

“I never said it was a problem.”

Patrick laughed. “Did it go okay with your dad?”

“What—you mean dinner? It was just dinner. I have dinner with my dad sometimes,” he said, even though he couldn’t really recall having done it before, not with just him.

“Okay. Just checking.”

“You’re being weird.”

“Yesterday, you told me—” Patrick sucked in a breath. “It’s not a big deal. I just wanted you to have a good night.”

Yesterday. David remembered yesterday. “I told you—what he said?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Patrick said quickly. “Where are you going with Stevie tomorrow?”

David’s brain was stuck. “I told you what he said, and you remembered it?”

“You seemed pretty upset,” Patrick said. “But I don’t want to remind you of it, if it’s water under the bridge. You’re not planning on watching horror movies with Stevie again, are you?”

David remembered Patrick’s smile at Dad, the polite one but not a real one—even cooler, David realized now, than the one Patrick usually gave to customers at the store. Patrick hadn’t let Dad know that he’d been invited to the bar with the team; Patrick hadn’t asked in front of Dad if David wanted Patrick to come to the café with them. Patrick had given David all the options—ways to escape from Dad, ways to be alone with Dad. Even Patrick’s arm, his strong arm around David’s waist—that had been a part of this, a part of Patrick thinking about the fact that David’s dad had called him disappointing, and Patrick had remembered it, like it was something that mattered.

Hot tears sprang into David’s eyes, and he should not be crying about this. It was such a small, trivial thing. He couldn’t remember anyone ever doing anything like that for him before, but Patrick had thought it mattered, what someone said to him, and Dad had thought it mattered, enough to apologize, enough to say that he was proud. David tried to think of something else, anything else.

“David?”

And the only thing that David could think of was that last night, Patrick had called him beautiful, over and over, and made him come so hard it hurt, and then Patrick had slept beside him in a bed, and David had woken naked but he hadn’t felt afraid. He hadn’t felt afraid, and he’d gotten to look at Patrick sleeping; it was too much. It was too much.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” David managed. Then he held the phone away from his face, so Patrick wouldn’t hear, then gulped hard, and gulped again. He wasn’t crying. He was too exhausted to cry. He’d cried _twice_ last night, just from sex, and sometimes he cried when he had sex but usually not, like, _all the time._

 _Drama queen_ , Quinn had called him.

David gulped again, then put the phone back to his face. “Yes,” he said again. “He—he apologized. Dad, I mean.”

“Oh.” David could hear Patrick’s smile, a little one. “That’s good, right?”

“He never—he never did before, not like that. Sometimes we don’t—my family we don’t—sometimes we just say things; we’re used to saying things; we—we don’t always mean them.”

“So,” Patrick said slowly. “Your sister, calling us sleazy?”

David shook his head. “She didn’t mean it.” 

“And your Dad?”

David pushed his fingernails into his thigh, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough. He found the bite-mark on his shoulder, the one Patrick had made, and pressed his fingernails into that instead, because he could not believe he was sharing this with another living person. “He said,” he whispered, “he was proud of me.”

“He said that?” Patrick said. “I mean, has your dad even tried the body milk?”

“What?” David took his fingernails away. “Ew.”

“I’m just not sure he could possibly know how great the store is without trying it. I mean, I’m sure your mom’s had the brie, though. And after that game tonight, he might be questioning your dating choices. But I’m guess he can see you have excellent taste in sweaters; I suppose any father would be proud of that.”

David didn’t know what to say to any of that, but he no longer felt like crying. “I think he thought I was going to wear suits,” he said, his voice still an undertone.

“So he only met you recently?”

“I wear suits,” David said, a little bit affronted by this.

“Are they fuzzy?”

“I don’t wear _fuzzy_ things.”

“All right, David.”

David’s head reared back. “Don’t ‘all right David’ me!”

“What should I say then?”

David felt a rush of affection for him so strong that he didn’t know what to do with it. “I look excellent in suits.”

“You’re saying that as though looking excellent would be new and different for you.”

David bit his lip to stop the smile creeping up on it. “You mean me looking excellent is not new and different?”

“Have we talked about fishing for compliments before? I feel like we’ve talked about it.”

“Let’s talk about _you_ in suits.”

“Oh, is that something you like?”

“You had on a little hat.”

“You mean—the baseball uniform?”

“You were very cute,” said David.

“Yeah, that’s what I was going for,” said Patrick.

“And your make-up.”

“Did you like my picture?”

“I didn’t ask for pictures of Gwen.”

“I was in it! You didn’t say I had to be alone.”

“Mm,” said David. “Do you want to hear all of my specifications for the picture of you I require?”

“Uh, not . . . yet?” said Patrick. “Maybe later.”

“Mm-hm. How much later?”

“Maybe. Um. In a few months?”

“A few months?” David sat up straighter. “You’re going to make me wait a few months for a _photo_ of you?”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” Patrick began. “But—”

“Oh my God!” David looked around the dark car in shock, even though there was no one to hear. “Oh my God, I’m not asking for nudes!”

“Oh.”

“Oh my God!”

There was a pause while David tried to collect his thoughts. Then Patrick said, “So, you think it’s tasteless? Or—”

“Oh my God, no, it’s _risky_. It’s risky; don’t ever do that. What if someone hacks my phone? What happens when we break up? You don’t want those—it could ruin you; don’t ever do that. Don’t ever let anyone—you shouldn’t do that.”

“Huh,” was all Patrick said, and David _hated_ when he did that. It drove him absolutely crazy.

“What!”

“I just don’t think our concerns are the same.”

“What,” David demanded again.

“There’s no reason anyone would try to hack my phone,” said Patrick.

“There’s all kinds of reasons! Identity theft! That’s a reason.”

“Who would want to steal my identity? I’m not very financially successful.”

“Is this like how you people get out of your cars in the middle of the night to help people?”

“‘Us people’?” Patrick asked politely.

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” David said. “Don’t do things where you could get hurt. Don’t put yourself in positions where you could get hurt.”

“Huh.”

“Will you stop saying that!”

“Okay, David.”

“And don’t ‘okay David!’”

There was a pause. “I won’t send you my nudes. I mean really, they don’t sell for that much on Nude Portal anyway, so—”

“What the fuck is Nude Portal?”

“It’s where all my nudes would end up,” said Patrick, “after we break up, and someone hacks your phone.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“I mean. It kind of is.”

David picked at the steering wheel for a moment. “My mom misplaced her nudes,” he said finally.

“That—sounds awful.” Patrick’s tone changed completely. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I meant. That one was funny.”

“Was it?” Patrick said faintly.

“Not at the time. They were taken with her permission.” 

“Ah.”

David picked at the steering wheel some more. “And when she realized she’d lost them, she wanted them to be on the internet, so people could see—I don’t know—how she looked then; she didn’t mind it. It wouldn’t really ruin her reputation at this point.”

“I’ll let your mom know if I ever see them on the internet.”

“Ugh,” said David. “Why are we having this conversation?”

“Because I thought you wanted a picture of me naked.”

“Just so we’re clear,” David said, “I would love a picture of you naked. Don’t ever do it, though.”

“I’m no longer allowed to say okay to you or all right, so I guess you’ll just have to assume I get it.”

“You can say okay,” David said. “I didn’t mean to say that.”

“Okay, David.”

“No one’s ever been concerned like that,” David blurted. “Before. For me. The way you—cared about. What my dad said. He didn’t mean to say it so it—it turned out to not be a big deal, but—but no one’s ever—it’s not something—um, so thank you. I guess.”

There was a pause. “Sure,” Patrick said eventually.

“Um. How was your night? At the bar.”

“Good. I’m still there.”

“Oh.”

“Well, I mean. I’m outside of it. On the curb. I just wanted to check on how you were.”

David was very glad that Patrick couldn’t see him, but he still wanted to hide his face; he didn’t want anyone to see his smile. “I’m in the car.”

“Earlier today,” Patrick said. “On the phone.”

They’d had a lot of phone conversations today; they’d texted a lot, but they’d only _talked_ once. David remembered how it had ended. At least that stopped his face.

“I’d like,” Patrick said slowly, “to have phone sex with you again. I liked it a lot last time, in case you couldn’t tell. But—”

“I didn’t mean to!” David bit out, before he could stop himself.

There was another pause. “You didn’t mean to have phone sex?”

“Um. I . . .” David cast about desperately. “What were you going to say?”

Another pause. “I was going to say I’m kind of tired tonight. And . . . really, we did so much last night, not to mention this morning, that I’m not even sure I’m . . . I mean, I probably could, but—but I guess I’d rather—not. Tonight.”

“Mm-hm,” David said quickly, then remembered that _mm-hm_ was hard to hear over the phone. “Yep. Got it. Not tonight.”

There was another long, hellish pause. “How about you?”

“I’m good,” David said quickly. “We did do—a lot. Last night. I mean, I’m . . . earlier. On the phone. I shouldn’t have done that. I didn’t mean to; I just wanted . . .” David couldn’t figure out how to end that sentence. _I just wanted to talk to you forever_ was a pretty bad excuse.

“Sex?” Patrick finally said.

“I got enough,” David said loudly.

“Enough, oh, that’s good.” Patrick sounded amused. “So glad you got enough.”

“I did,” David said, stubbornly. _I usually don’t,_ he wanted to say.

“That’s too bad,” said Patrick. “Because I got us a hotel in Elmdale this Friday.”

“O-oh.” David tried to say it in a sexy way, even as he felt his mouth beginning to curl up. “I . . . what did you get that for?”

“Pay-per-view. And I love those little one-use conditioners, don’t you? And the bar of soap in the paper package.”

“Mm-hm,” said David. “Have you used hotel conditioner?”

But Patrick didn’t get it, because he said, “Uh-huh. I especially love those two in one, conditioner-soap bottles. Make my hair look great.”

“And what about the hotel hand lotion; have you used that?”

David could just hear the soft huff of Patrick’s laughter. “You’re not gonna get over that, are you.”

“It’s doubtful.” David was kind of tired of being in the car, but he didn’t want to say goodbye. “Thank you. For the room. That was—thoughtful.”

“Big pay-per-view fan, huh.”

David thought about this. “Are you saying it won’t even have Netflix?”

Patrick laughed. “All right. You have work in the morning. I’m gonna say goodnight.”

“Okay,” David said, leaning once again on the steering wheel. He never wanted Patrick to say good night. “Say it.”

“Hm.” Patrick appeared to be thinking about it. “See you Monday.”

Then Patrick hung up, and David thought about one of his favorite songs by Mariah Carey. It was underrated, really, maybe because it was so slow and wandering, about being alone and out of place, about always feeling like you were on the outside of everything and everyone. But there, sitting in the car, with three pictures of Patrick on his phone, David almost felt like that song wasn't about him any more. These pieces of Patrick, dinner with his dad, and Stevie playing Solitaire were enough to make him feel that when they left—when Patrick got fed up, and Stevie got bored, and Alexis had to go to Belize—he would still have something to hold onto.

 _Recognize you were born to exist,_ Mariah Carey said, and David almost felt that he could, as if that was enough, somehow, as if he was enough.


	2. Chapter 2

**Patrick:** What are you doing with Stevie?

**David:** Elmdale art house is doing a audit series  
**David:** Skidding series  
**David:** Siddig! Siddig el fadil omg

**Patrick:** Stevie’s a fan of elmdale art house?

**David:** Stevie’s a fan of hot guys  
**David:** What are you doing today

**Patrick:** Not hot guys  
**Patrick:** yet  
**Patrick:** The day is still young

**David:** So what are you doing

**Patrick:** Idk I’m spontaneous

Patrick didn’t say anything else. _Why don’t you like telling me what you do_ , David typed out, then deleted it. It was clingy. He was getting clingy. This always happened. Fuck, it always happened; he could control it. He could control it. David dealt with the customers at the store, trying not to be clingy.

* 

**Patrick:** Just some errands. Maybe arranging some songs

**David:** Arranging?

**Patrick:** I play guitar

**David:** I didn’t know you still did that

**Patrick:** Just messing around  
**Patrick:** Gwen and bob are coming over for dinner. Ray’s going to teach me how to make stromboli

_He thinks he’s not interesting,_ David remembered suddenly, and tried to think of how to say over text that the fact that the guy he was dating did arty things with a guitar and then did cooking sounded like a home ec wet dream.

David deleted _home ec wet dream_ on his phone.

**David:** Sounds fun  
**David:** You’re well rounded

**Patrick:** Oh yeah I’m da vinci

_Stop it._ David deleted that too.

**David:** Da vinci was hot

**Patrick:** Oh so you knew him. I knew you were old David but wow

**David:** I’ll forgive you for that if you let me try the stromboli

**Patrick:** Oooh do I get to

**David:** Yes I’ll allow it

**Patrick:** Good to know

*

**Patrick:** How’s the store

**David:** These kids liked my rings

**Patrick:** How old were these kids

**David:** teenagers

**Patrick:** Ok pretty sure these are the same ones. They keep hanging around

**David:** What do you mean

**Patrick:** They’re hoodlums

**David:** Under that cute dairy fresh face you have the soul of a withered old geezer

**Patrick:** Dairy fresh

**David:** Yes it’s dairy fresh you have a dairy fresh face

**Patrick:** You call me fresh a lit  
**Patrick:** *lot

**David:** Bc you are fresh look at you

**Patrick:** Like in a mirror?

**David:** So anyway these kids think I’m cool I’m their fashion icon

**Patrick:** Your rings are ok I guess  
**Patrick:** What does dairy fresh mean exactly  
**Patrick:** Am I like a cheese  
**Patrick:** A delicious cheese.  
**Patrick:** I’m a cheese what kind of cheese?  
**Patrick:** Am I cheddar  
**Patrick:** Or something fancy like ricotta

**David:** You’re fontina  
**David:** Sorry I had customer

**Patrick:** Was it those kids did they buy anything

**David:** Fontina is very buttery you’re very buttery patrick

**Patrick:** What does that mean

**David:** I want to put you on a cracker

**Patrick:** Is this dirty talk I can’t tell

**David:** Forget the cracker it was weird

**Patrick:** I’ll never forget the cracker

*

**Patrick:** How come you don’t have me friended on instagram

**David:** You don’t friend people on ig

**Patrick:** So how come you don’t have me friended. I have you friended

**David:** I don’t follow beyonce on ig

**Patrick:** I’m not beyonce

**David:** I don’t follow ellen on ig

**Patrick:** I don’t think I’m her either

**David:** I don’t follow Oprah do you not understand where I am going with this

**Patrick:** You are going to friend my Instagram? Have you even looked at it

David finally looked at his followers. **pebrewer3187**. Oh God. This was terrible. Maybe David could get away with following him and unfollowing him, and Patrick wouldn’t notice.

**David:** What does the e stand for

**Patrick:** Elizabeth. Did you look at it

**David:** I don’t find you cute

**Patrick:** Is that why you haven’t friended me

**David:** Is march 1 your birthday

**Patrick:** If I tell you will you friend me on ig? I made it just for you. I thought you wanted pics

Heart skipping, David finally looked at Patrick’s Instagram.

Oh God. 

Doors. It was full of doors—storefront glass automatic doors and dilapidated screen doors and non-descript apartment doors and boring, ugly doors. The ones dated from today had pieces of Patrick in them, Patrick’s eyes and forehead, Patrick smiling and pointing to a door, Patrick posing with a door like Vanna White; he must have gotten someone to take that one. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to talk about what he was doing. That _asshole_.

**David:** Those door photographs were taken by a very talented photographer who had a solo show at the whitney at the age of 32  
**David:** do you even understand

**Patrick:** yes and I took these aren’t they great

**David:** I’m not going to follow you

**Patrick:** Ok but youll be missing all these great pics of me  
**Patrick:** And doors

*

**Patrick:** Are you on your way home

**David:** Stevie’s picking me up

**Patrick:** Don’t you have to change

**David:** For stevie? no

**Patrick:** I see  
**Patrick:** 1 day we will be at the point in this relationship where you don’t change your clothes to go on dates w me

**David:** You should appreciate I look nice for you

**Patrick:** I appreciate every way you look

“Something’s wrong with your face,” Stevie told him, and David’s head jerked up. 

He didn’t know how long he’d been looking at that text; he hadn’t even heard the bell above the door. “Nothing,” he said quickly, even though she hadn’t asked a question. He slipped his phone into his pocket.

“No, something’s wrong with it.”

David’s phone chimed. He twitched but didn’t reach for it. “I was just closing up,” he said, putting away the cleaning spray and cloth, even though he hadn’t used them. He’d been texting Patrick instead—but it was okay; he could clean the door tomorrow morning, and everything else was done. He just had to get his bag from the back, where he could get his phone out and look at Patrick’s text.

**Patrick:** Where are you guys going to eat

**David:** We’re doing our movie food

**Patrick:** What’s your movie food

**David:** Marshmellows and pringles

**Patrick:** This is how you feed yourself. No wonder you need my stromboli

_I need more than your stromboli_ , David swiped, then deleted it. 

**David:** We get chili after

**Patrick:** Wow okay so balanced meal

**David:** Don’t judge

**Patrick:** Do you think I’d be dating you if I judged

**David:** I don’t have to take this I am going out with my bff

“Am I going to this movie alone?” Stevie yelled from the other room

“No!” David called back, guiltily shoving his phone in his pocket, where it chimed once more. Grabbing his things, David headed out with Stevie to her car. “Did you get the Pringles already?” he asked her, buckling into the passenger seat as she buckled in on the driver’s side.

“No, we have to stop at the gas station on the way there.”

“Classy,” David said.

“That’s me,” Stevie said, pulling away from the store.

David’s phone chimed again. Then again. David’s knee started bouncing.

“Aren’t you going to check your phone?” Stevie said, glancing over at him.

“It’s just Patrick.”

Stevie gave him another glance, this one somewhat quelling, but Stevie’s looking were often quelling. It didn’t exactly convey a particular message; she had a quelling face. “What, we’re not going to talk to Patrick now in front of me; is that it?”

“Patrick talks a lot.”

“Uh-huh,” Stevie said doubtfully, but that didn’t mean anything either. Stevie had a doubtful voice.

“He does,” David said, lifting his chin. “He’s very personable. Gregarious, some would say.”

“Some,” Stevie said brightly. “Like your mother? She uses words like ‘gregarious.’”

“My mother is keeping a three-kilometer radius from Patrick.”

“Ooh, she’s already on a restraining order?”

“Yes,” said David. “I am restraining her.”

“Why?”

“Um, because she’ll ruin it. In case you hadn’t noticed my mother is—a lot.”

“Oh, no.” Stevie sounded so innocent. “I never noticed that at all.”

“Mm-hm. How was Bree?”

“Bree was good. Why don’t you check your phone?”

“I said, it’s just Patrick.”

“Uh-huh,” Stevie said again in that doubtful way. “And he’s gregarious.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Whatcha got, a—a muscle spasm going on there?” Stevie’s eyes slid over to his legs. “Is that a muscle spasm in your knee?”

“What?” David demanded.

“Or like a June bug? Crawled into your pants?”

David forced his foot down hard to make his leg stop bouncing. His whole thigh tensed with the effort. “Why would you say that?” he whispered. She knew he hated June bugs.

Stevie’s eyes were back on the road, but she grimaced. “You still want to bounce your leg, don’t you.”

“No,” David lied.

“Just look at your phone, David.”

“Okay, first of all, what does my _leg_ have to do with my _phone_?”

“And second of all?”

“What?”

“You said ‘first of all’.”

“That—that was all.”

“I’m not _upset_ that you’re going out with Patrick, okay?”

“Who said you were?”

“No one,” said Stevie. “But when you think you can’t even look at his texts when you’re with me, I don’t know, it kind of says something similar.”

“You want me to look at my texts? Fine. I’ll look at my texts.” David took out his phone.

**Patrick:** Right stevie never judges you’re safe there  
**Patrick:** Did stevie get there  
**Patrick:** Tell her hi for me

“He says hi,” David said, putting his phone on silent and then tucking it away.

“Was that so hard?”

David tried to think of something snarky to say, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t concentrate at all, because Stevie’s car was a mess, and Stevie had all these nineties female singer-songwriters she listened to. Tracy Chapman was playing, and Patrick had a stupid Instagram, and David’s Instagram was _rigorously_ curated to include only the most obscure and tasteful photographers, fashion influencers, and artists, and “Fast Car” was the most heartbreaking song in the world but it was ten times sadder hearing it in _Stevie’s_ car—“I’ve never done this before!” he burst out, entirely unexpectedly. 

“Gone to a Siddig fest?” Stevie said, like she was giving him some kind of out. “Neither have I.”

David didn’t take this offer of escape, and words kept coming out of his mouth. “I’ve never had a you before, and a him; I don’t know what you want; I’ve never had to—I never had a you before.”

“Well, um, thanks? For that—heartfelt—” Stevie said the word as though she wanted to hold it away from her nose while wearing a rubber glove—“declaration, but no. What I _want_ is for you to forget I _ever_ freaked out about—about Patrick yesterday, or you being my friend, or any of this, because we are good; you and I are good; we don’t have to—to negotiate terms of you _having a boyfriend_. We _certainly_ didn’t have to negotiate terms of me having a boyfriend, so why don’t we just—”

“Ugh.” David recoiled. “Is Jake your boyfriend?” Then he heard his words. “Patrick isn’t my—he and I are just—going out.”

“I don’t know! Jake and I are just—‘going out’! Why do we have to talk about this? We don’t have to talk about this. Let’s just—we’re just going to the movie and do the gross thing with the chips and the marshmallows and watch a hot guy—I don’t actually know what happens in this movie. Do you?”

“No,” David said weakly. “I do love our gross thing.”

“So let’s just go—do that,” said Stevie, “and forget we ever had this conversation.”

_But I want to text him back_ , David wanted to say, because it was kind of killing him. He’d been texting Patrick all day, but it had been so spread out because it was Sunday and the store was busy and David had had to deal with customers, and now he wanted nothing more than to text endlessly like a Gen Z kid in high school. But there was Stevie, and David wanted to spend time with Stevie; he _liked_ Stevie; he wanted to be there for Stevie, and it felt like more than he had ever had to navigate before.

Did real people do this? Have friends and boyfriends they cared about? At the same time? This also sounded fake. Like how did their hearts get big enough? How was fucking—fucking Jocelyn Schitt’s heart big enough?

A friend and a—a—a _dalliance_ —was a lot, not to mention a sister and a mom and a dad and a job. And a Ray, and a Ronnie, and a—a Gwen. Side characters who didn’t matter except did matter because they mattered to other people. Did people really do—relationships—with all of them? Was David really going to have to remember who Gwen was?

“Do you know who Gwen is?” David asked abruptly, turning to Stevie.

“Jazzagal Gwen?” Stevie asked, turning onto Shetland Trail. “Why, you don’t?”

“I think this town is warping me,” David said. “There’s too many people in it. By which I mean there’s not enough people.” 

“Where is this coming from?”

“I don’t _want_ that many people.”

“Neither do I. I hate people.”

“I don’t _want_ to follow Patrick on Instagram.”

“Okay,” Stevie said slowly.

“He posts ugly pictures,” David said.

Stevie swallowed a snicker. “Um. What do you mean? I’m sure they’re very—artistic.”

“I don’t _want_ to go to baseball games with my dad.”

“Are you sure about that? Because Mister Rose was pretty pumped.”

David looked at Stevie, who knew who Gwen was, who’d spent last night with skaggy stripper Bree, who was going out with Jake because she thought she didn’t deserve better. Stevie, who clung to him almost as much as he clung to her, because theirs was the first thing that either of them had ever had that was real and true and their own, outside of the ugliness of their respective universes, the manipulation and usury and betrayal they had found there.

The curve of her black hair against her face, along her neck, was like the arch of a raven’s wing. _You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,_ he thought, then looked out at the road. It was straight and gray, green spreading out forever on either side.

“Fast Car” was a song about a woman living in a cycle of poverty, who had a memory of riding in a fast car that made her feel like she could escape. David always thought it was a nice song that had nothing to do with him. It still didn’t have anything to do with him; he’d never known a cycle of poverty; he still lived a privileged life.

“I never had a you before either,” Stevie said, looking steadfastly at the road. “Just so you know.”

It made David feel like he lived there.

He lived in this car, on this road between two places. He lived in Schitt’s Creek, where there was a Patrick and a Stevie and a Gwen, where Alexis was staying in one place so long she’d had a job and was studying for school, where Dad took him to see baseball after twenty-six years of nothing like that at all. David had a store; he had a family; he had a friend; he had someone beside whom he was not afraid to sleep naked, and David realized he’d never felt like he had lived somewhere before. They could drive on this road forever; he knew how to get back home.

_I had a feeling like I belonged,_ sang Tracy Chapman. _I had a feeling like I could be someone, be someone, be someone._


End file.
